Shock Treatment (6 page)

What's happening to me?

The door slammed open. Two Madame Alexandras burst into the room. “What's going on?” she demanded. “Why all the shouting?” Her exotic features reacted in shock to the serpentine chaos in the Cleopatra Room. Loose snakes darted toward the open door, while Heather cowered in the corner. Rita swayed unsteadily atop the massage table. Blood dripped from her wounded throat. The room started to spin around her. Blackness encroached on her vision.

“It bit me,” she whimpered. “It freakin' bit me. . . .”

Rita tumbled off the table onto the floor. She collapsed atop the warm ceramic tiles.

Hissing furiously, the snakes slithered away from her body.

J
IM
B
RASS WAITED
outside the makeup trailer while Jill Wooten changed into a jumpsuit under Catherine's supervision. He suspected that Jill was probably happy to get out of her blood-splattered attire. Chances were, she never wanted to see those clothes again. Brass knew the feeling. He still remembered the day he had accidentally shot Officer Martin Bell during that firefight six years ago. He had never been able to put on the jacket he'd worn that day again. Too many painful memories. Eventually, he'd tossed it in the trash.

Good riddance.

He loitered at the foot of the steps, wishing he had put on a heavier coat. Dawn was hours away and they still had several more principals to interview, not to mention the rest of the TV crew. He figured he was going to be here past sunrise at least. In the meantime, the temperature had to be in the thirties. His breath frosted before his lips. He began
to regret vacating the trailer while Jill changed. Chivalry was a bitch.

Footsteps echoed behind him. He turned to see a uniform, Officer Pennington, escorting another witness toward the trailer. Debra Lusky was the next item on Brass's to-do list. According to Jill, her friend had steered her toward tonight's “job interview” at WaxWorkZ. Which meant that Debra had set her friend up for a little
Shock Treatment.

Wonder how she feels about that now?

He looked Debra over as she approached the trailer. Compared to her redheaded, modelesque friend, she struck him as a bit on the plain side. Of medium height and weight, she trudged glumly toward the detective, wearing slacks and a stylish wool blazer that he guessed she had bought especially for her big debut on TV. Straight brown hair was cut in a short, professional bob. Her defeated expression and body language hinted at a guilty conscience. She dragged her feet across the pavement.

“Here she is, Captain,” Pennington told Brass. Pennington was a burly Filipino who looked like he put in plenty of time at the gym. “I told her you wanted to talk to her.”

Brass gruffly acknowledged his service. “Thanks.”

Debra and her escort had reached the foot of the steps when the door to the trailer swung open. Catherine's voice could be heard inside. “You're free to go, Ms. Wooten. Thank you for your cooperation.”

Jill emerged from the trailer, clad in an unflattering orange jumpsuit. Another uni stood by a few yards away, waiting to drive her back to her apartment
out past Tropicana. Jill froze atop the steps as she spotted the other woman below her. Her knuckles tightened on the rail. “Debra?”

“Jill?” Debra hurried forward, leaving Pennington behind. She held out her arms in sympathy, like she couldn't wait to give her friend a hug. “Oh my God, Jill. How are you doing? I am so sorr—”

She didn't get to finish her apology. “You lying bitch!” Jill snarled, her face twisted in rage. “How could you set me up like this? Do you realize what you've done? This is all your fault!”

She lunged at Debra.
Oh hell,
Brass thought. Reacting quickly, he grabbed onto Jill's waist before she could add assault and battery to her rap sheet. He struggled to hold on to her. She was stronger than she looked. “Whoa there! We don't need any more bloodshed tonight.”

Pennington stepped in front of Debra, just in case Jill got loose. Visibly shocked by her friend's reaction, Debra shouted past her guardian, trying to justify her actions. “But . . . it wasn't supposed to be like this! It should have been fun!”

“Fun?” Jill stopped squirming, but her fury hadn't cooled a bit. She glared angrily at Debra. “You call this fun? I killed a man because of you! Do you get that? He's dead!”

Debra flinched as though she had been slapped. “Please, Jill. You have to understand. I didn't mean any of this. If I'd had any idea things would turn out this way . . .”

“Shut your lying mouth!” Jill put her hands over her ears. “I don't want to hear any more bullshit from you.” She smacked herself in the head. “I
should have known better than to friend you again. This was all about getting back at me, wasn't it? You jealous little slug!”

Okay,
Brass thought.
This is getting interesting.
He observed the confrontation through narrowed eyes. He had not arranged this run-in on purpose, but it was turning out to be more informative than he could have anticipated. Now he just needed to keep Jill from adding to tonight's body count.
Good thing she doesn't have another gun on her.

Drawn by the commotion, Catherine poked her head out of the trailer door. “Everything under control out there?”

“I think so,” Brass muttered. He loosened his grip on Jill, but didn't let go.

Debra kept trying to defend herself. “No! It wasn't about that, I swear. You're my friend, Jill!”

“Not anymore.” Jill twisted in Brass's arms, turning away from Debra. “Please,” she begged him, “get me away from her. I can't stay here any longer.”

“All right.” Brass decided it was time to break this up. He turned Jill over to Pennington, who kept a tight hold on her arm as he escorted her to a waiting patrol car. The wary uniform clearly wasn't going to give Jill a chance to make another lunge at Debra. The last thing they needed was a brawl on their hands.

Unfortunately, Debra didn't know when to shut up. She shouted at her friend. “Jill! Listen to me, please! I didn't mean any harm. We can work this out!”

“Save your breath.” Jill didn't even look back. Instead she quickened her pace.

Pushing her luck, Debra started to hurry after her. “Jill, wait! We need to talk about this!”

“Excuse me, Ms. Lusky.” Brass intercepted her before she got too far. He laid a restraining hand on her shoulder. “You're going to have to talk to Jill later, if she's so inclined. Right now I'm afraid you and I need to have a little chat.”

“What?” she said, still distracted by Jill's icy exit. Her shoulders sagged in defeat as she watched the patrol car carry Jill away. Damp eyes remained fixed on retreating taillights until they finally disappeared into the late-night traffic. She whispered softly to herself. “I'm sorry, Jill. Please forgive me.”

Brass tried again to get her attention. “Ms. Lusky?”

“Yes?” She finally remembered Brass was there. “Oh, right.” She turned to face him. Her bland, nondescript face looked a few years older than Jill's. Sparkly white teeth, her most attractive feature, were ready for their close-up. “My apologies, Captain. This has been very traumatic for all of us. I'm sorry you had to see that.”

I'm not,
Brass thought. He felt like he'd learned a lot, even if he didn't entirely know about what. He indicated the trailer. “Please step inside. We have some questions for you.”

“Of course,” she said, more cooperative now that Jill was gone. “I understand.”

He followed her into the trailer, where he introduced her to Catherine, who was placing the bloodstained sweater and skirt into a labeled brown paper bag. They escorted her back to the makeup station, where she plopped down on the same stool Jill had used before. Judging from that shouting match outside,
the seat might be the last thing they would share for awhile.

“Jill's right hand tested positive for GSR,” Catherine updated him. “No surprise there.”

“Good,” Brass said. Surprises were overrated, especially in murder investigations. So far everyone agreed that Jill Wooten was the shooter.

I can live with that.

Debra was still apologizing for the ugly incident in the parking lot. “Just so you know, we're not usually like that. Jill is just overwrought. Small wonder, after what she just went through.” She shivered from head to toe. “What we all went through.”

“Uh-huh.” Brass maintained a neutral tone. “And how exactly do you and Jill know each other?”

“We used to be roommates,” Debra answered. “Until about a year ago. We've been friends, on and off, ever since.”

Brass wondered about that “on and off.” He'd gotten the impression that there had been some bad blood between them at some point. Jill had been kicking herself for making friends with Debra again.
What's that all about?

“Do you think she'll ever forgive me?” Debra fretted. Their falling-out appeared to be preying on her mind. She chewed on her nails. “Is that even possible?”

“I couldn't say.” He got down to the business at hand. “How do you figure into what happened here, Ms. Lusky?”

Debra slumped upon the stool, unable to meet his eyes. “It's true. I set her up for the show. Told
her I had a line on a job opportunity for her. I'm a copywriter at the local ad firm. I claimed our company was handling the promotion for the club's opening.” She looked up, seeking understanding. “But it was just supposed to be a harmless TV stunt. I mean, you've seen the show, right?”

“I can't say I've had the pleasure,” he said dryly.

“Well, that's how it works,” she explained. “Friends or family members set up their loved ones to get ‘Shock Treatment' every week. And everybody has a big laugh afterward. No one's ever gotten hurt before. Honestly, I thought Jill would find the whole thing fun and exciting, and that the TV exposure might even help her modeling career.” A bitter smile lifted her lips. “I thought I was doing her a favor.”

Ironic,
Brass thought.
If she's telling the truth.
“Guess it didn't work out that way.”

“No,” Debra admitted. “But how was I supposed to know that she'd be carrying a gun?”

Catherine raised an eyebrow. “You didn't know about the threatening calls she'd been receiving?”

“Calls?” Debra looked confused. “What calls? From whom?”

Brass noted her blank expression. If she really didn't know about the calls, then maybe the two women weren't really as close as Debra seemed to believe. You'd think Jill would confide in her friends about something like that.

“That remains to be determined.” He consulted his notebook. “Are you familiar with her ex-boyfriend? Craig Gonch?”

“That jerk? Sure. We were still roommates when
they broke up. He didn't take it very well, to say the least.” She gave Brass a puzzled look. “But what's that got to do with anything? As far as I know, he's been out of the picture for awhile.”

Brown eyes widened as she put the pieces together.

“Oh my God. You think she had the gun because Craig's been stalking her again?” She sighed and shook her head. “Oh, poor Jill. I had no idea.” She stared bleakly at the floor. “I still can't believe she really shot someone!”

Brass shrugged. “Guess you didn't know her as well as you thought.”

T
HE SPA WAS
located on North Durango Drive, near Summerlin. A pricy neighborhood, Dr. Ray Langston noted. It made a pleasant change from the skid row motels and filthy alleys his career change as a CSI often brought him to. The Nile appeared to be the last place one would expect to find a crime scene, although Ray had come to learn that murder could be found almost anywhere. Even better than the sanitary surroundings, however, was the conspicuous absence of the coroner's wagon. David Phillips was nowhere to be seen. Instead Ray spotted a van belonging to the Las Vegas Department of Animal Control.

“No body?” Sara Sidle asked. Obviously, she had noticed David's absence as well.

“The victim was still breathing, barely, when the EMTs arrived,” Detective Vartann informed them. The veteran cop met them in the salon's elegant lobby, wearing a dark suit, hawkish features, and a
characteristically grim expression; Langston wasn't sure he had ever seen Vartann smile. “She was rushed to Desert Palm Hospital.”

A former physician, Ray was relieved to hear that the patient was still alive. A distinguished-looking African-American male in his late forties, he wore a neatly pressed sports jacket with no tie. A professorial air betrayed his past as both an MD and college instructor. Short black hair was showing traces of gray. He took off his sunglasses. “What's her prognosis?”

“Not sure,” Vartann said. He was only a few years younger than Ray. “We're still waiting to hear back from the hospital.”

“Beats waiting to hear from the morgue,” Sara commented. The thirty-something brunette had left the crime lab a few years before Ray had joined the team, but had recently returned to help out on a temporary basis. Ray appreciated the chance to learn from her experience. Only a level-2 CSI at the moment, he was eager to advance to the next level. Sara was already a level-3, like Catherine, Nick, and Greg. After two years on the job, Ray didn't feel like the new guy anymore, but he knew he still had a lot to learn. Sara looked over the lobby. “So where's our crime scene?”

“This way,” Vartann said. “If there actually was a crime. We're still trying to work that out.” He led them down a hallway profligately decorated in pseudo-Egyptian kitsch. Shouts and heavy footsteps escaped a closed wooden door. A painted profile of a regal Egyptian beauty, sporting an asp-crowned beaded headdress, and embossed gold type identified the chamber beyond as the Cleopatra Room.